


your hills and valleys are mapped by my intrepid fingers

by zombeesknees



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-09-14 00:37:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16902774
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zombeesknees/pseuds/zombeesknees
Summary: The morning after. Follows "love and some verses you hear" | Written many moons ago on LJ.





	your hills and valleys are mapped by my intrepid fingers

She woke to find herself alone. He had left only his imprint on the sheets and pillow beside her — when she laid her hand in the hollow she found it already cold. 

A surge of panic ran hot through her veins, closely followed by a string of doubtful thoughts. Did he regret last night? Had she ruined their relationship? Would he push her away now? But before the thoughts could fully ensnare her mind, still muffled in sleep, she heard footsteps approaching. 

Rose lay back against the pillows, schooling her face into a calm, relaxed expression that feigned sleep. She knew she couldn’t make the ruse last very long; already her lips wanted to twitch into a smile, and she knew how observant he was. 

There was a soft clatter of dishes as he pushed open the door. She heard him make his way toward the bed, but barely. He was trying quite hard to be quiet as he set a breakfast tray on the bedside table, and the urge to smile was almost overwhelming. 

The bed creaked softly as he sat on the edge beside her. He traced the rise and fall of the sheets over her body, the peaks that ascended gently with each breath before descending. She was awake, and he knew it; from the uneven tempo of her breathing, from the way her eyes moved beneath her lids, from the way her mouth was already in a half-smile. 

He leaned over her, brushing strands of pale hair back from her cheeks with his warm hands before pressing his lips to hers. She smiled against his mouth. 

“Mornin’,” he said. “Breakfast?”

He was wearing his blue robe and slippers, but she knew he hadn’t showered yet. The scent of yesterday’s rain and sweat still clung to him, in a not unpleasant way. 

“What’ve we got?” She gathered the bedclothes around her as she sat up.

“Waffles with strawberries, powdered sugar, and maple syrup, and orange juice and toast.” He poured the juice and organized the tray, humming to himself before setting the tray on the bed between them. “I think the waffles came out just right; I was in the middle of mixing the batter when I remembered this nifty little trick Julia Child showed me with lemon zest and egg whites.” 

Rose giggled. “Lookit you!”

“What?” He unfolded a linen napkin with a sharp flick of his wrist.

“Oh, nothing. You’re just an adorable goof sometimes.”

He wiggled his eyebrows and she laughed again. “You know, I’ve always liked the idea of brekkers in bed.”

“You’ve never done it before?”

“Nope. Well, yes. Well, not really. There was one time when I was laid up for several days after a rather grueling chess competition on Lucifer.” He chewed on a strawberry thoughtfully. “But that wasn’t really breakfast in bed; that was pudding and mashed taters with my arm in a sling.”

“A _chess_ competition?”

“Chess can be an extremely grueling game!” He pretended to bristle at her incredulity. “Especially on Lucifer — there it’s a full-contact sport! Try playing it for a straight week when your opponent is twice your size and has a mean right hook.”

“Okay, okay, I apologize! …Did you win?”

He looked up from cutting his waffles, eyebrows raised. “Of course I did. A family was counting on me, and I couldn’t let them down.”

“If I’d been there, I never would have doubted you. I’d have stood at the sidelines and cheered you on until I lost my voice.”

The Doctor found himself picturing Rose with a pair of pom-poms and derailed that train of thought quickly and with finality. 

“Have we stopped somewhere?” Rose asked, licking a dollop of maple syrup off her finger. “I don’t feel the engines moving.”

Yet another example of how different Rose was from anyone he’d traveled with before: she was almost as in-tuned with the TARDIS as he was. He could explain the connection away with the fact that only Rose had ever looked into the heart of the TARDIS, that her transformation into the Bad Wolf had left her changed even after he’d taken the energy of the Time Vortex from her. But he had the sense that even if none of that had ever happened, even if the Bad Wolf had never scattered the words throughout time and space, Rose would still know the TARDIS as he did — as a home, and as a friend. 

“I set us down in California, summer of 1952. The weather will be spectacular for the next five days, and I figured we could use a bit of a vacation after the bomb and the Church and yesterday.” He set the finished tray back on the table. “What do you feel like doing first? There’s the beach, of course, or… Oh! I’ve always wanted to take one of those Parade of Hollywood’s Stars Tours! You know, the kind where you ride around in a pink bus with a guide named Cindy and drive past actors’ mansions?”

He was practically bouncing with excitement, and Rose couldn’t help but giggle again. “I’d be up for that. Of course, we’d have to wear ridiculous hats and novelty sunglasses to fit in with the other tourists.”

“I was thinking more of a classic Hollywood feel. Cary Grant fedoras and Marilyn Monroe dresses.”

“Oh really? A Marilyn Monroe dress, huh?” She was leaning in closer, a hand preventing the sheet from sliding down any further (though it had already slid down quite a bit), her untidy hair a golden nimbus around her face. 

He swallowed audibly. “Mmm-hmm.”

“ _ **Seven Year Itch**_ -style, or _**Gentlemen Prefer Blondes**_ -style?” Her mouth was barely an inch away from his.

“I always preferred _**Some Like It Hot**_ ,” he murmured, closing the gap, burying a hand in her hair as she undid the belt of his robe.

They took it slow, took the time to explore each other as they hadn’t the night before. Fingers brushing along the lines of her architecture, teeth against the nape of his neck. They entangled arms and legs and sheets, then worked their way free again. 

His fingers weaved through hers. Every sigh and cut-off breath was echoed with a tremor that passed from his hands to hers. She held on for dear life.

He reveled in the play of her muscles against his, in the way his touch made her catch her breath. She found herself wondering for not the first time if Time Lords weren’t a little bit psychic, if he was in her mind even as their bodies joined. If he wasn’t reading her thoughts it was even more impressive; he moved in just the right way, just as the need entered her awareness. 

She loved the way his hands caressed her back, hesitating at her waist. He had an amazing number of freckles — she hoped she’d have the time to count them all. And as her nails drew lines down his arms, as his breath hitched in his throat, he marveled at how _right_ this felt, at how natural it was. Already his body knew hers, and it felt like a blessed moment when they relaxed, gasping and flushed.

Why had he waited so long? Why had she been coy all these weeks? But perhaps it only could have happened this way, after they had each spent dozens of sleepless nights thinking of the other, after hundreds of covert glances and hugs that lingered just a bit longer than usual. 

Rose’s head rested on his shoulder and her hand was on his chest, a warm presence over his left heart, cradling it in her thin fingers. He kissed her forehead, breathed in the ghost of conditioner that still clung to her hair. 

“Doctor,” she said quietly.

“Hmm?”

“Do you think I can pull off the Marilyn look?”

He chuckled, a low chuckle that she felt echo in his chest. “I have no doubts on that score.”


End file.
